


My Heavens to Turn Over

by allthegoodnamesaretakendammit



Category: Treasure Planet (2002)
Genre: Age Difference, Aggressive Sexual Content, Canon Compliant, Coming of Age, Daddy Issues, Epistolary Romance, Fix-it fic, Fluff, Forbidden Romance, M/M, May be triggering for some, No underage, Pining, Silverhawk, Space Pirates, a tender romance between a young man and his thieving pseudo-father, also: croissants, slightly ableist comments, some bdsm undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12884763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthegoodnamesaretakendammit/pseuds/allthegoodnamesaretakendammit
Summary: Jim gets a letter.Or: A grizzled space pirate and his rebellious cabin boy fall in love. Four years later, they do something about it.





	My Heavens to Turn Over

 

  
The first letter comes on a sunny afternoon in September, when Jim is slogging through an essay next to his big window--because say what you want about the Royal Interstellar Academy's dormitories, but every room has a window with a view. Jim is exactly halfway through his paper on spacer safety procedures during grease fires when he hears the little mailbox by his door open and close. So either somebody's attempting to haze the new cadet next door and they put their unopenable jar of cosmo-nutbutter in the wrong mailbox, or it's a letter for Jim.  
  
You'd think that after three years of this, a five-page essay would be a breeze, but it really isn't. So Jim stays in the zone until he makes it to the 500-word mark. Then he rolls his shoulders and stands up, letting his fleet jacket hang loose, unbuttoned. He ambles over to check his mailbox, hoping it's a box of purps from his mom; he's had a craving for them lately. Instead, he finds a crisp, cream-colored letter sitting at the bottom of the box.  
  
The letter is rolled and tied, old world merchant-style, and the return address is a P.O. box in the commercial district of the Zynthurion system. Jim holds it up to the light and tries to catalogue all of the little details that his Intelligence Gathering seminar drilled him into noticing. The paper is nothing special, common stock synthesized pulp that's sold on every planet from here to the outermost asteroid clusters. The black cord it’s tied with is pretty nice, though; a thin strip of genuine silk that also could have come from anywhere, but has that luxurious shine to it.  
  
He sits down on his bed and uncurls the letter, reading it slowly.  
  
_Jimbo,_

 _It's been a long time. How's life at the Academy with all those high falutin naval folk? Are they always that stuck up, or is it just around us lay people? Saw a solar surfer the other day and thought of you. If you don't want to respond, I won’t hold it against you none._ _  
_

_Your Friend,_ _  
_ _An Old Scalawag_

And from the first word, Jim's heart is marathoning in his chest and his hands shake so hard that it takes twice as long to read the letter as it should.  
  
Yes, it had sucked to meet the love of his life at age seventeen. And yes, it still hurts to think about how long it's been since they last saw each other and the fact that he never, ever had the guts to tell Silver the full truth of it, of what he felt for him. But the more distance he gets from it, the more he can acknowledge that neither of them had needed to say anything. It was all there, plain as day.

In years since, Jim had taken to thinking that Silver was still out there, raking in a big profit and an even bigger reputation for himself in the black market. That he was a busy man, that he couldn't afford the time or risk to reach out to the boy he had maybe loved once.  
  
But if this letter and the whole Treasure Planet fiasco have taught Jim anything, it's that Silver is deadly patient when he has to be.  
  
And really, epistolary romance isn't really Jim's _style,_ but duty calls.

  
*

 

The next night, when he can finally breathe again, Jim pulls out his Academy-issue stationery and, after eight drafts, he has an acceptable letter in front of him. In its final iteration, it reads:  
  
_Dear Old Scalawag,_ __  
__  
_Yes, they are always that stuck up. Of course I want to answer your letter. Have those rusty parts started to rot your brain?_ __  
__  
_Your Friend,_ __  
_Jim_ __  
__  
_P.S. Someone pink and squishy misses you a lot._  
  
Jim seals the envelope and puts one of the stamps he's borrowed from his mom on it--a bright one with carnations the exact burning color of Silver's cybernetic eye.

  
*

  
The morning after that, his brain comes online again and he realizes with a jolt that midterms are right around the corner. He tries to get ahead of it by spending the next three nights napping in the solarium and studying like a fiend.

By the time he gets back to his dorm that Friday, another letter is waiting in his mailbox. All it says is:

_You'd better be taking good care of that shapeshifter, Jim Hawkins._

Jim reads it out loud to Morph, who seems to catch the gist of it if his trilling and ecstatic squirming is anything to go by. This time, Jim writes back right away:

_He gets as much food as he can eat three times a day, and at night he sleeps curled up in that first letter you sent. He's in heaven._

Jim convinces Morph to dip part of his gelatinous self in ink and then press himself against the bottom of the letter. Then Jim doodles an arrow next to the dark splotch and labels it "Morph's signature."

  
*

  
He doesn't get a reply for the next week, so, punch-drunk and cocksure between two portions of his Intergalactic Communications exam, he writes Silver:

_Laying low because a job went bad?_

Three days later, Silver writes back:

_Laying low because the job went well. That's when your enemies really come out of the woodwork, Jimbo._

Jim doesn't ask where Silver has stashed himself away. Jim's too smart for that. Also, he's not sure how well he'd handle it if Silver told him outright that he won't say. And Jim would _really_ fly off the handle if Silver risked putting his address down on paper and then mailed it to an institution of pirate-hunting space-police in training.

It's a true no-win scenario. Jim is getting awfully familiar with those.

  
*

  
Nine days later, midterms are over and Jim figures that it's perfectly healthy and reasonable to take advantage of the now-empty library to do some extracurricular research before he heads home for the break.

From the start, he adds any new information to his mental star map, never writing any of it down. He also takes the added precaution of hacking into the school's private servers and using the faculty's data stream, so that no one will know who requested extensive information about the Zynthurion system. After all, it's not paranoia when everyone really is out to get the man you love.

As it turns out, all P.O. boxes in Zynthurion market hubs are strictly anonymous, even on government record. So Jim turns to calculating response times: the time it takes for Jim's letter to arrive at Silver's mailbox, the minimum amount of time it takes to receive a reply from him. At the end of it, the only thing Jim can be sure of is that Silver is a day and a half's journey from the market, at most. After factoring in all possible travel speeds, there are two dozen planets that fit the bill in terms of distance and habitability, to say nothing of nearby asteroids that anybody could have a makeshift outpost on.

Well. It's more information than he had yesterday, anyway. As for the job Silver took...

It's smuggling, if Jim had to guess. It'd be the best use of Silver's charm and, of course, his X-ray vision and cybernetically enhanced strength. Jim's also willing to bet that the backwater, outlying planets of that region would pay a pretty penny for bulk goods on the sly with faster delivery. Jim is _from_ a backwater planet. He knows these things.

  
*

  
The first Wednesday after the break brings a package of mechanical butterflies from Dr. Doppler and one ragged little letter from Silver, which spawns a rapid back-and-forth exchange:

_Ran out of the good paper. Here’s to hoping that your majesty the Great Naval Officer Jim Hawkins doesn't mind the lower grade. Speaking of which, how are your grades these days?_

_I prefer 'Your Immanence,' actually._

_Begging a thousand pardons, Your Immanence. How are those grades, you ruddy layabout?_

_I have this friend who keeps telling me that grades are a social construct used to shame us into performing culturally appropriate behaviors, rather than actually performing better as students._

_And how are their grades?_

_Not as good as mine._ _  
_

  
*

  
Jim already knows what she's going to find, but he asks Kelsie, who’s on the Naval Investigations track, to test a sample of the ink from Silver's fourth letter. She hands the phial of ink filings back to him a week later on the Academy lawn, saying, "I don't know why you want to know that this shit is generic black carbon, but now you know."

Jim sighs and says, "Yeah. Thanks, Kelsie."

He offers up the promised volume of Montressorian folktales on loan from his mom. Kelsie takes it gladly but says, "Doesn't look like you learned anything new."

"I never do."

After Kelsie leaves for class, Jim sits on the bench for a while longer, soaking up the October sun, the open air, and the noises of far-off traffic. A sense-memory suddenly returns to him of the exact opposite: of absolute darkness, all sound stolen away, being crushed against the mast by a body more than twice his size.

It sounds terrifying when it’s put like that, of course, but when they'd flown into that black hole Jim had never felt so safe--all because Silver's arm was around him, his breath puffing right against Jim's ear, every element of his body language saying to the universe, _You want him, you have to take me first._ And that... that was all Jim needed.

It’s _still_ all he needs.

  
*

  
There are a thousand things that Jim is tempted to say in his letters. Like the fact that he still perks up whenever he sees a stranger on the street with a tri-cornered hat--hoping, for a second. Or that he aches for Silver, physically aches for him, for his touch, for the simple knowledge that he's within earshot if anything bad were to happen. To either of them. Jim knows that Silver can take care of himself--it's practically his profession--but that doesn't change the fact that if something terrible were to happen, Jim's only indication would be the lack of letters, and there would be nothing Jim could do about it.

And beyond that, they... they belong together. Not just in the flowery way, but in a more practical capacity. They're two of a kind. They can look out for one another, make each other better people. Now if only Jim could convince himself to put any of that on paper.

 

*

  
He's blind to the world beyond his desk again, totally focused on tuning up one of Dr. Doppler's mechanical butterflies one cloudy Thursday. At a place this straight-laced, Jim is practically the embodiment of rock 'n roll; so he figures fiddling with a few butterflies isn't going wreck his image that easily. He's just about done tweaking the hinge on the delicate brass wings when there's the heavy thump of a package too big for his mailbox being placed on his doorstep.

Jim opens his door to get it just as Wyrca is passing by, and the Alponian smirks, saying, "Geez, Hawkins. Another care package and a stack of love notes?"

But Jim just leans in and asks, "Jealous?"

Wyrca just huffs and walks away muttering, "You're shameless, Hawkins. Embarrassing you isn't worth the effort."

"You got that right," Jim tells him as he picks up the package and shuffles back inside. And then he checks his mailbox out of sheer curiosity. As it happens, there is the promised stack of notes: an envelope from his mom, a postcard from the Dopplers on their second honeymoon, and another letter from Silver rolled tight.

He starts with the package since he picked it up first. It turns out to be a set of five pristine screw drivers from B.E.N., with a little note that reads, _You never know when you'll need one! Or five!_ in his beautiful, calligraphic handwriting.

He reads his mom's ever so slightly stained letter next:

_Jim,_

_Took all 4 of the Doppler kids for 8 nights. Thank the stars B.E.N. can cook for 5. How wld you feel about having him as a stepfather?_

_How is school? Tell Kelsie I say hi. Have to go--heard something shatter in kitchen. So glad you are an only child._

_Love you!_

_Mom_

Jim laughs against his will; his mother is a saint for taking them off of Captain Amelia and Dr. Doppler's hands, but he's glad he's not there to suffer through it. Apparently, they'd brought all their kids with them on their first honeymoon because they really didn't know how to take a vacation. With that thought, he picks up the postcard, which features a holographic image of the Gadreon Belt in profile. It’s bright enough to make his eyes water, but it's very pretty. He flips the card over and sees in Amelia's neat, curt writing:

_Officer Hawkins,_

_Our second honeymoon is going swimmingly thanks to your dear, beneficent mother. Do let us know if you think of a way that we might repay her properly for her bleeding heart and unending gallantry. We hope all is well at school, and we have every confidence that they’ll turn you into an erudite gentleman sometime this century._

_All Best,_ _  
_ _The Dopplers_

Good for them. After their rocky start, it does Jim good to see their happy marriage and productive lives.

His desk is a mess of letters and tiny screws now, but that's okay. A full life begets messiness. When he thinks about it, though, it's weird to have them all in the same room, even second-hand. Jim tugs on his rat-tail, a nervous habit but also his way of relishing the fact that seniors are allowed any haircut of their choice after three years of either an undercut or something less than four inches. Kelsie had gotten green hair extensions four feet long in celebration.

Jim wonders if Silver would laugh at him for having basically the same haircut as four years ago. He wonders, essentially, if he was meant to have evolved, to have some outward signifier of newfound maturity. The thought of it makes him nervous and hungry out of some vague sense of despair, so he grabs an eclair out of his fridge and lets the smooth creaminess of it distract him from everything else. Once he's licked most of the chocolate off of his fingers, his eyes turn to Silver's letter of their own accord. It's a slightly longer one this time, and it reads:

_The thrusters are in tip-top shape now--after some elbow grease and a heart to heart about whether or not they want to become scrap metal. Sails are pretty spiffy too. I've been meaning to ask: what are you eating these days, now that you don't have a world-class chef at your beck and call?_

Jim starts writing his reply right there, trying not get any chocolate on it.

_I don't remember having you at my beck and call. And I've been living off of cafeteria gruel mostly. Sometimes I get an eclair from the bakery downtown. We have this saying on Montressor: it’s not an addiction if you can still pay rent._

Silver's reply takes a few days, but when it comes, it reads:

_There’s nothing so fine in all the Etherium as a fresh pastry. To tell you the truth of it, Jimbo, I miss croissants more than any man ever has. Been making pots and pots of bonza-beast stew lately, though._

Reading that, Jim suddenly remembers his initial surprise at seeing Silver--a man who seems to embody the very concept of meat and potatoes--coo over a platter of bright blue croissants, flaky and tasty, borrowing their color from powdered star algae. The thought that Silver couldn't have them, wherever he was... it's upsetting because Silver has lost so, so much over the span of his life. And he gave up the prize at the end of all that just for Jim's sake and now, now he can't even enjoy a croissant? It feels incredibly unfair. Jim would mail him some if edibles weren't strictly forbidden from interplanetary mail over one light year from its destination. It's a shame, really. But...

If Silver wanted a croissant, why couldn't he just make some?

Jim pulls on his coat and jogs down to the bakery, doing his best to maintain a veneer of nonchalant urgency. He spots Claude's purple tentacles waving above the lunch crowd just as he's pulling off his apron for a smoke break. "Claude!" Jim calls, and the man looks happy to see him, so the two of them meander over to the side street with the best selection of crates to sit on.

"I was just wondering," Jim begins, finding it very hard to overcome the urge to shake his friend and yell at him until he tells Jim literally everything he knows about pastries.

Jim clears his throat and continues as casually as he can, "Where would it be difficult to make croissants? Logistically, I mean?"

"Well," Claude says, lighting a cigarette with two tentacles and scratching his chin with another. "Hot climates are the worst for it. The butter melts before it's time and it's just a mess when all's said and done."

"Does humidity have anything to do with it? Or gravitational intensity?"

"Hmmmm, no," Claude drawls, taking a long pull on his cigarette. "Most anywhere's fine, as long as it's not too hot. Why do you ask?"

Jim gives him the best excuse he could think of during the jog over here: "My mom was thinking about adding them to the menu at the inn."

Claude guffaws and asserts, "I've met your mother, Hawkins. That woman has _no_ interest in making anything that can't be done in thirty minutes and on autopilot." Then he hums thoughtfully and smiles as he says, "Are you taking an interest in baking, my gruff little cadet?"

"Maybe," Jim answers as he walks backwards and away. "And I'm an officer now. Try to keep it straight!"

Jim doesn't race over to the library. Instead, he sits calmly on a bench in the solar park until he feels like he's not going to go flying out half-cocked to wherever he _thinks_ Silver might be as soon as he gets any substantial evidence. It takes about half an hour.

 _Then_ he goes to the library.

He quickly finds out two things: almost all butter melts at 95 degrees Fahrenheit, and there is only one planet within Silver's range of possible locations that has a year-round temperature of 95 or above. He pulls up a 3D map and thermal imaging of it with trembling fingers.

And there it is, a speck on the map--a planet a quarter of the size of Montressor named Secu. Only just big enough to be classified as a planet. Extremely hot and cold at either of its poles and choked with volcanoes in between. Secu also has admittedly lovely stretches of beach, but it's much too isolated from any other planet of note to become a popular destination. A little over a day’s journey from the Zynthurion commercial district. Out of the way, but not _too_ out of the way.

It all lines up very nicely, but if Jim's being honest with himself... he's not confident that Silver is on Secu because of inductive reasoning and careful research. He's confident that Silver is there because that's precisely where Jim would be, if he were in Silver's position. In fact, that's precisely where he wants to be, right this second.

 

*

 

Jim tells Silver that he's going home for winter break, and that he can send letters to the inn if he wants, or he can send them to Jim's Academy address if he doesn't mind waiting a couple weeks for a reply.

Apparently Silver opts to stay the course and keeping mailing to the school, because when Jim gets back to his dorm room at the start of second semester--his _last_ semester, how the hell did that happen so fast--there are eight letters packed tightly into his mailbox. As always, they offer tantalizing glimpses into Silver’s life and they pose thoughtful questions about Jim’s own affairs. But Jim doesn’t answer any of them. After three weeks of open affection between family new and old, he’s burning with the need to tell Silver one very important truth:

_I hated it. Treating you like an enemy._

Silver, ever-obliging to changes of topic, writes back:

_That’s what I get for acting like one. But I know how you feel, Jimbo. Treasure-hunting is all well and good, but it can’t justify the thousand little pains of betrayal and drama and so on. I do it solo or not at all, these days._

And then, abruptly and completely despite himself, Jim writes:

_Was it worth it?_

Silver, being Silver, knows exactly what he's asking:

 _Here I was, thinking you were getting smart at that frilly school of yours. What a daft question, Jimbo._ _  
_

  
*

  
Today, Admiral Yeats told him that he would make a good captain, if he had the inclination. And Jim... Jim thinks the wording of that was just right. He would only be a good captain _if_ he had the inclination, and he's not sure that he does.

Though it's possible Admiral Yeats was just trying to pay him a compliment, teacher to student. Jim has never gotten close enough to his superior officers to really figure them out. You'd think that Jim would be desperate to snatch up every scrap of affection he could get from this pantheon of authority figures and real-life role models, but no.

It turns out he's only like that around Silver.

Still, the question bears thinking about. He could kind of see himself in the Navy for the long haul, since everybody knows that the Royal Interstellar Academy is basically a glorified recruitment scheme. Once he graduates, though, he has no formal obligations to go down that path. He could just as easily apprentice in one of the local shipyards, or farm himself out to one of the long-term voyages departing from Montressor Spaceport every day.

Jim could always use "a few character-building months in space," as Dr. Doppler had put it the first time around. He had liked feeling useful, being part of one big machine. And then there were those times where the workday drew to a close and he and Silver would just slump together, Silver's arm slung heavy and warm around Jim’s shoulder, as natural as anything.

Maybe it would be nice to find camaraderie again--you know, with less unresolved lust and mutiny. So Jim says, “Hey, Morph, how would you feel about going on an expedition again? You know, months in space, wind in your hair, eating galley grub?”

Morph chirps, reshapes himself into tap-dancing Captain Amelia that concludes her dance with a thumbs up, and then slinks back down into Jim’s desk drawer to play with his shiny paper clips.

Well. It’s an idea, anyway.

 

*

  
Then there's a quick-fire exchange between the two of them in April:

_When you gave me that handful, did you save any for yourself?_

_Just enough, Jimbo._

_Does that mean you have a Class-Five cruise ship stowed away somewhere?_

_Jimbo, Class-Fives are as gaudy as putting jewelry on a glittering galdrang. Now a Starseeker, that's a ship with some soul._

_I'm sure you'll be very happy together._

It’s good, it’s so good to get these bite-sized pieces of Silver, of his humor and his wants and his life. Jim hates himself a little for not being satisfied with this when he knows perfectly well that he would have killed for it a year ago. Has he always been like this? Insatiable for the things and people he likes?

It’s hard to say. That’s definitely how Silver is, though. Insatiable and larger than life in every aspect; which is probably what makes him such a great storyteller--roaring with laughter at his own jokes and using his prosthetic as a prop, his arm changing shapes as fast as the twists in the story. It makes Jim wonder if Silver has told anyone the tale of the R.L.S. _Legacy_ and the fall of Treasure Planet. He wonders what forms Silver's arm would take: a pair of scissors to snip menacingly while hissing out Scroop's words from memory, then shifting to use his circular little pinchers to form a silhouette of Flint's map against the wall.

And then he suddenly knows, somehow, that Silver hasn't told that story to anybody at all.

 

*

 

Before Jim can even believe it, he’s gearing up for the end of his academic career, spending too much time in library and out on the docks with his friends, and almost none of it sleeping.

All he has to do is trudge through this one last round of finals and then he'll be out of here. He'll spend summer at home trying to decide what he wants to do with his life and then, at the beginning of fall, their whole class will return to declare their career trajectories and attend the graduation ceremony, while all the fresh recruits watch. Full circle, baby.

So yeah, sue Jim for being a little sleep-deprived and emotionally raw when he writes to Silver:

_I miss you._

That's it. That's the letter. Anything else would have been sugarcoating it.

One endless, endless week later he receives this letter:

_You’re at the happy end of a big chapter in your life, Jimbo. I’m sure you’re about to miss a lot of people. Now explain it to me real simple: what’s this Wyrca fellow all about? Seems like a mixed soul to me._

Over the next seventeen days, a flurry of letters suddenly leaves the two of them washed ashore, beached before they even know it:

_Yeah, I’m about to graduate and say goodbye to a lot of people, but you’ve got to know that saying goodbye to you was in another league entirely. There’s no comparison._

_Sounds like you’re not giving your friends a fair shake, there._

_Don’t make me say it._

_You lost me, Jimbo. Don’t make you say what?_

_You and me. What was between us was different. Am I wrong to think that you wanted me?_

_What do you want me to say to that? I wanted you. I still do. It makes me feel like the lowest scum in the cosmos, but it doesn’t look like it’s changing anytime soon. Kicking myself for it hasn’t solved it. Not seeing you hasn’t shaken it. If making me admit that is your way of ending this, then fine. I can respect that, Jimbo. I wish you all the best._

And hell yeah, it pisses Jim off that _this_ is how they’ve decided to go about finally getting honest with each other, and that he’s the one who set this whole chain of events rolling. But honestly, it pisses him off even more that Silver is so convinced that he's not wanted, that his confession is a solid brick wall and Jim is going to run into it, is going to stop there because the laws of physics demand it.

It's almost like this guy has never met Jim Hawkins before.

So Jim writes him a letter back. All it says is:

_Joke's on you, asshole, because I love you too._

  
*

  
Summer break starts two days later.

The first thing Jim does is rent a souped-up skiff and buy enough fuel and rations to last him three months, just in case. And then he calls home one last time to make sure his mom is really okay with the sudden change of plans; he can delay for a week, if she truly needs him there.

But when she answers, she sounds like she's at peace with him going AWOL for an undetermined portion of the summer. He's spent every vacation at home with her, helping out around the inn and being obnoxious at regular intervals whenever she starts looking at him like she's wondering who he is and what he's done with her real son. But she’s cool with the new plan and the skiff is even lighter and faster than the _Legacy,_ and Jim is ready, he’s beyond ready.

So he shoves the rest of his stuff into storage, breezes by the bakery to buy a huge bag of treats, lets Claude give him hell for ten minutes, and then he's got the tiller right under his hand and he's launching, right back out into open space, letting the starlight and the rush of the Etherium whizzing by soothe his soul for a time.

Jim takes a winding path through the Magellanic Cloud and then covers his tracks with every bit of expertise that he's picked up in the last decade of illegal flying, adventuring, and formal training. All in all, it takes two days for his speedy little skiff to swing into the Zynthurion system, and Jim spends almost every minute of it keeping his hands steady by mentally reciting every kind of knot he can think of. When that stops working, he talks to Morph until his throat hurts and Morph isn't even pretending to not be half-asleep in the niche beneath the starboard rail. And when _that_ stops working, Jim allows himself two whole minutes to entertain all of the ways that this could go wrong: maybe another letter from Silver is en route to inform him that whatever's between them is over regardless of what Jim has to say about it, maybe Silver won't even open his door when Jim gets there, maybe he lied about wanting Jim in that last letter just to push him away, maybe Silver has already left Secu to head Jim off at the pass, maybe Silver was never on Secu in the first place and Jim's just fooling himself, thinking that he could track down one of the galaxy's most notorious pirates by using freaking _context clues._

Then his self-appointed two minutes of wallowing are up and he gives himself two minutes to think about all of the ways that this could go right. And then he's crying, setting the tiller on autopilot so that he can rub his hands over his face and hide his painfully wide smile from the stars. He leans back against the rented little preserving unit, running down a mental checklist of the rations inside, wiping his eyes and trying to reign his hope back in.

Jim's not going to tell himself something stupid--like if he saw Silver just for a minute, it would be enough. He and Silver could spend all summer working through these rations together, making dishes Jim's never tried and fucking feeding each other by hand, and it still wouldn't be enough. But it would be nice to see him. Even if it's Silver angry and on the defensive and shoving Jim off of his doorstep, it'll still be one more ounce of Silver than he had before.

Jim’s face is dry and his mind is clear by the time Morph rouses himself and starts messing with Jim’s boot laces. Then the bright dot of Secu grows bigger and bigger until it takes up the whole of the horizon. Jim approaches it from the southeast, aiming towards its balmy northern pole. He breaks atmosphere over an enormous peninsula, where the ash-choked gloom gives way to straight sun, not a single cloud in the turquoise sky.

The good news is that Secu is barely inhabited, especially this far north, so Jim lets his skiff scan for signs of life among the sand and surf, hoping to use process of elimination if all else fails. He follows along the coastline, figuring that a large water source would be the main concern of anyone living on this baking little continent.

He and Morph spend a few hours like that, cruising over scrub grass and the frothy lavender sea, just letting the computer do its work. The obvious occurs to Jim again and again: Secu is _hot._ Hot in a way technology can't do anything about, that you just have to sweat through. The heat that chokes out any possibility of water inland would usually be a hardship, but for now, it's aiding Jim in his search. it's far easier to swoop down a continuous coastline than to search for signs of life along river trails.

About four hours in, Jim starts flapping his sleeveless shirt against his chest, frustrated with the way it’s sticking to his skin. He glances out over the dunes for the hundredth time just as the scanner gives a meaningful _ping!_ There, along the coast, is the faintest glimmer of metal, of civilization, so Jim speeds towards it.

It's too much to hope that he’s found right reprobate hermit on the first try, but Jim hopes and believes, he truly does, so not a single part of him is surprised when that sparkle of metal advances until it’s a homey little cottage--a few trees gathered around it and a handsome caravel parked parallel to it, with spiffy sails and recently buffed thrusters past their prime.

Jim's heart is doing wild things in his chest as he pulls the skiff into a resting hover a good number of yards away from the house. Doubtless, Silver has spotted them already.

He pops open his preserving unit and grabs the white paper bag inside like a lifeline, trying to take long, calming breaths. Whatever else happens, this is worth it--Silver's worth taking risks for, and whatever's between them is worth fighting for. It is.

Jim takes one more deep breath and stands, Morph drowsily slinking up next to him. Jim hops over the side of the skiff and his boots hit the give of soft sand. He starts walking towards the house just as the front door opens and--

God, somehow there's even more of him than Jim remembers. Broad shoulders, proud stomach, surly expression. All of it is capped off with that red head-rag, that lumbering gait as he comes to stand on the porch.

Jim's about as in love with him right now as he's ever been, and that's really saying something. They only have a moment to stare at each other silently like idiots before Morph whizzes over to Silver like he's been launched by cannon. He rubs himself all over Silver’s face, making frantically happy noises while Silver chuckles and pets him, once Morph stays put long enough to let it happen.

After a long minute of that, Silver looks back at Jim, expression guarded. Jim takes that as his cue to hoist the big, grease-stained bakery bag like it's a white flag.

Silver smiles like he doesn’t mean to, like he honestly doesn’t want to. Then he says, “It’s good to see ya, Jimbo. Nevermind how or why.” Then he turns to head back into his house with Morph still cuddling into him, the front door left wide open in invitation.

So Jim follows him in, trying to take in every little detail of the house. Silver’s trademark black coat is hanging on the coat rack in the entryway with his hat perched right on top. The short hallway leads into a tidy kitchen and living room; the walls are made of smooth yellow brick and there’s only one small window over the kitchen sink, which gives the whole place a close feel. Silver sits down heavily at the kitchen table, letting the knob at the end of of his prosthetic leg drag against the lacquered hardwood floor. Jim sits across from him and starts unveiling the olive branch: three chocolate eclairs, four cheese danishes, and six croissants. Silver snatches up a croissant and takes enormous bites of it in between muttering sweet nothings to Morph--who, of course, also takes huge chomps of it.

Jim is cool with being ignored for a little while because it means he isn't being kicked out yet and it gives him time to savor the smell of the place--pipe smoke and cooking oil and the sweet scent of another world’s ocean. When Silver and Morph are almost done with their second croissant, Jim pulls his trump card out of the very bottom of the bag: two long john donuts with strawberry filling.

Silver closes his eyes and his facial expression does something very complicated, but he plays along, asking, “And what would those be, Jimbo?”

"Strawberry long johns," and Jim flicks some at Silver right when he says, "with powdered sugar."

Silver doesn't even duck it; he just lets Morph gulp up the sugar before it can even hit him. “You don’t say. What a hilarious coincidence that is, Jimbo.”

“Life is full of them,” Jim blithely agrees, watching Silver sink his teeth into one of the long johns. Silver looks like he’s enjoying it, at least before he lets Morph swallow the rest of it whole. Pushover.

"Shame we couldn't have 'em fresh. Especially those croissants. They’re as flaky as a Kalepsian molting tree, but I bet they’re ten times better fresh."

Jim already knows the answer, but he still asks, "If you really want them fresh, why don't you make your own croissants here?"

"Atmosphere's all wrong for it, Jimbo. The dough would be wrecked by the heat when I take it out of the fridge. It'd be nothing but a waste of butter."

"Yeah, but couldn't you just destabilize your thermal exhaust, rig it up in your kitchen, and seal the room with an environmental dampener?"

Silver's eyes widen and then they're shining with excitement, and the next thing Jim knows, they're both racing around the kitchen, baking like someone's life is on the line. Jim is cajoling the last few stubborn bolts into place on the internal exhaust port he snatched from Silver's boiler room when he hears the _shing!_ of Silver's arm popping out his biggest knife. And then Silver's slicing an industrial-sized slab of butter into still-gigantic squares, a look of utter concentration on his face.

Now that he's got the room burning cold, Jim focuses on wiping down the counter, drying it, and dusting it with flour. As it turns out, Silver doesn't have a rolling pin in his prosthetic, but he does have a dough press, a pizza cutter to slice the dough into triangles, and a tape measure to get it just right. For the kitchen itself, Silver has sprung for temporal-assistive kitchen appliances, so the dough is chilled and laminated in no time, and now Silver's sliding the croissants out of the proofing drawer. Jim glances at the clock and is astounded to see that, somehow, three hours have passed. No wonder Morph looks so impatient now.

One last whisper-thin coat of egg wash and Silver is shoving thirty-six croissants into the oven, which does not, actually, speed up the cooking time on a molecular level like the rest of the kitchen does. As the oven door snicks shut, silence descends swiftly over the room, broken only by the sound of distant waves crashing on the shore.

Jim knows that it's weird for two men--who have confessed their love to each other despite an age difference spanning decades and who are seeing each other for the first time in years--to focus on an activity this wholesome for hours at a stretch. The weirdness just hadn't caught up with him until now.

Jim is about to commit to staring at his own feet in complete silence when he spots Morph licking flour off the counter out of sheer peckishness.

"Quit that!" Jim says, and he scoops Morph up, scolding, "You know eating that stuff straight isn't good for you."

Silver clomps over to tickle under Morph's chin and says, "He's a little vacuum, Jimbo. He can't help it." Morph purrs in agreement, darting over to Silver's neck and snuggling into it like he still can't get over the fact that Silver's actually here. Jim knows the feeling.

"So how long have you been here?" Jim asks, trying not to let the silence fall again.

"About a year now," Silver replies, hanging up his apron and wiping his hands over the white shirt underneath. "Holed up on Naridian before this and cooled my heels as a fishmonger in the Coral Galaxy before that.”

Jim takes a moment to picture it: Silver waking up for the darkest hour of morning, casting his nets out for astral fish, haggling over his catch of the day, and saving the biggest and best for himself to grill up for lunch.

Silver breaks Jim's train of thought when he asks warmly, “What are you smiling about?”

“Oh nothing. I’m just glad I finally know why you smell like fish.”

Silver chuckles at the snub, leaning back against the opposite counter. Then he meets Jim’s eyes soberly and says, "I've been careful, Jimbo."

"I know," Jim answers. "If you weren't, I'd see your face in the papers a lot more."

"Hah! This mug? No need ta frighten the public." Jim frowns, wanting to contradict him, but he doesn’t get the chance before Silver continues, “Anyhow, how are yer grades? You never said it plainly, ya sly thing."

Jim scuffs his boot over the floorboards and admits, "Pretty good. In the top third of my class."

Then there’s a shock of warmth on his shoulders as Silver’s broad brown hands close over them and Silver holds Jim’s eyes with his own when he says, "I'm so proud of you, Jimbo. You know that, don't you? Grades or no." Jim sucks in a breath that makes his throat feel raw and dammit, was he naive to think that he'd stop physically hurting with want for Silver once they were in the same room?

The timer dings, and Silver releases him to pull the croissants out, rack after rack, bare-handed with fearless metal fingers. The kitchen smells amazing now, and every available surface has a pan of piping hot croissants on it. None of them are willing to wait, so they all grab one and Jim only burns his tongue a little before the golden buttery goodness whisks away everything else. They’re flaky and complex, they’re delicious, they're--they’re _Silver’s,_ and Jim is having some, and Silver is here, God, he’s right here.

Jim opens his eyes to watch Silver lovingly devour his croissant, looking for all the world like he’s just been reunited with a cherished childhood friend. Behind him, Morph swallows three steaming croissants all at once. Normally, Jim would scold him for that, but hell, they’ll need the help if they’re ever going to eat all of these. They can always just freeze the rest of the batch, if it comes to that.

Jim picks up his second croissant and savors it in small bites, knowing that he probably won’t be able to fit another one in his stomach after this. He tries to memorize all of the sights and sounds around him: the warm richness of the pastry on his tongue, the hum of the refrigerator, the little window offering a patch of sunlight for Morph to play in, and the fact that the top of Jim's head is level with Silver's shoulder, now.

He brushes crumbs off of his shirt and decides to break the quiet with his usual all-or-nothing approach. "I had wondered, you know, which side of you was the real one. The kooky galley cook or the merciless pirate captain," Jim says, voice level as his fingers trace over the brown underside of his croissant. "And then I realized: they're both you. Aren't they?"

His eyes flit up to Silver, who returns Jim’s stare guardedly before he surrenders to the wry smile creeping over his face. “Now, Jimbo, you know as well as anybody that I was also a merciless galley cook and a kooky pirate captain.”

Jim smiles back at him and they share this moment of understanding--it’s crystal clear and nostalgic and it fucking lightens Jim’s bones to experience it after that last spate of letters and all of the fear and shame they carried with them. Jim shoves the last bit of croissant into his mouth and starts dismantling the thermal exhaust just so that he has something to do with himself.

He can hear Silver cleaning up the kitchen counter and Morph circling the ceiling beams like he’s determined to commit the whole place to memory, from top to bottom. Jim gets the exhaust port disconnected and hauls it back to the boiler room. He fiddles with the environmental controls while he’s in there and sets the kitchen back to normal remotely, maybe stalling there for awhile to regain some of the feeling in his limbs. By the time he strides back into the room, Silver is standing in front of the sink, his sleeves rolled up so that he can scrub out his measuring spoons. Silver doesn’t turn his head, but calls out, "So what're yer plans for the future, Jimbo? Are ya gonna be a scurrilous swashbuckler or an upright Naval Commander?"

Jim leans back against the kitchen wall and says, "Well, I'm pretty sure I'd have to get a gold tooth or a parrot or something to make a convincing pirate, so that one's out." He scratches the back of his neck, one of the central concerns of the summer returning to him in a flash. "And I've given the Navy a few years of my life and I don't regret it, but I'm not sure if I want to give it any more."

Silver shuts off the water, dries his hands, and nods like he knows exactly what Jim is talking about, which makes Jim wonder: was Silver ever--? Before he can ask, Silver says, "Doesn’t seem like they did too shabby, training ya up in the meantime. Why, ya hardly even slouch anymore!"

"Etiquette and Posture 101. First semester, first year."

Silver laughs hard at his expense and says, "I bet ya just loved that, didn't ya, Jimbo."

"They made us learn ballroom dancing, too." Silver laughs even louder at that, so Jim does a little box-stepping for him, with all of the precise footwork and the haughty lift of his chin. Morph actually joins in, hovering opposite of Jim and squealing delightedly when Jim pretends to dip him low. Silver supplies generous applause, so they bow for it, and Jim wonders if his eyes are sparkling like Silver’s are right now, if his affection is as raw and obvious as Silver’s.

It’s wonderful, to know that they can still have a good time like this, still be lighthearted despite everything. Not bad for four years apart--

No. Five now.

It almost rips the breath right out of Jim’s chest to remember how much time has gone by. He straightens up, but his head sinks under the weight of that knowledge, and the motion must catch Silver’s eye because now he’s leaning in to get a good look at Jim’s ear. Silver exclaims, “Why, Jimbo! You’ve lost yer little piece of rebellion!” It’s true. With very few exemptions, the Academy doesn't allow piercings, so the hole in Jim's earlobe had healed awhile back.

“Yeah, Regulation rejected it pretty enthusiastically,” he answers, because four years at the Academy could take his away his earring, but it couldn't train him out of saying _yeah._

Silver looks contemplative for a moment, and then he’s reaching up to his own little gold hoop, fiddling with it. Jim can hear his nails catch on the locking mechanism and then the earring is tumbling into Silver’s hand and he’s offering it to Jim, wearing the most inscrutable smile.

Jim closes his eyes, swallows down that sudden sharp something in his throat, and tries to be a mature, confident-sounding adult when he says, "I can't accept this."

"It's nothing, Jimbo. Been meaning to upgrade for awhile now. This time, I'm thinkin' I’ll get something with platinum." There is the curious whirring and clinking of Silver’s arm transforming, but Jim keeps his eyes closed because he knows that if he opens them, he might actually burst into tears or do something equally unforgivable.

He keeps his voice steady when he says, “Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have it, but I don’t even have a piercing for it--” There is a flash of pain in his earlobe, but that’s only second to the heat of Silver all along his side, which Jim only registers as his eyes fly open and Silver draws away. The self-satisfied grin on Silver’s face is kind of morbid, next to the piercing gun and automatic sterilizer jutting out of his arm.

Jim holds his ear protectively, crying out with every bit of disbelief he can muster: “Why do you _have_ that?”

But Silver just says, “Don’t forget to turn it and rinse it with alcohol daily, Jimbo. Should be all healed up in another month or two.” His arm shifts back into its default prosthetic hand and then he starts shelving the trays of croissants in the freezer like nothing about what just transpired is weird. Morph seems totally chill, too, weaving through the pots and pans hanging overhead like he’s made a game of it. Jim decides to let it all slide in the name of living in the moment, and he touches the ring dangling golden from his ear, wondering where it’s travelled over the years.

He drags his fingers over the shape of it, again and again, draws confidence from it, and says, “When you sent that first letter… what prompted you to do it?”

“I got to missing you, I suppose,” Silver answers matter-of-factly as he crams the final tray into place. “And I had some stationary that I needed to get rid of.”

Silver elbows the freezer closed and settles into the nearest kitchen chair with a creak. Jim stays right where he is, trying his very best to keep a cool head.

“I’m glad you did,” Jim says, feeling like he's every inch of that scrawny punk that Silver got burdened with as his cabin boy.

Silver sighs and drags his cybernetic hand over his face, asking mournfully, “Are ya, Jimbo? Are ya really?”

"What, you think I sailed across the galaxy because I _don't_ want to be around you?" At Silver's inscrutable expression he snaps, "What kind of asshole do you think I am?" He waves a hand, trying to find the words. "That I would lie about this or, or that I would lead you on or make you feel bad about it--"

"Now you listen here, Jimbo. I have every right ta feel like a slavering galcrag because of what I feel for you. T'ain't right. Wasn't then, and it isn't now."

Doubly furious now, Jim spits, "So that's it, then? You just get to decide for both of us that you're a dirty old man who doesn't deserve love or happiness? The fact that neither of us tried anything--that you never took advantage of me--doesn't matter? At _all?_ " Jim's proud that all of that came out pretty cogent, but Silver doesn't answer to any of it.

Silver just looks really, really sad and says, "You have so much ahead of you, Jimbo."

"Yeah, I do," Jim agrees, looking right at Silver because this man is everything to him and they both know it now, no matter how inconvenient that is for Silver's self-sabotage and sense of guilt.

"You deserve someone you can take home to meet your family. You’re a fool if you think I can be a part of your life, Jimbo.”

Of all the idiotic, willfully oblivious--“You already are!”

Silver's still not done, though, crying out, "But don't you want something grand fer yourself? Don't you want your freedom?"

Jim tells him earnestly, "You give up a few things, chasing--"

"Oi! None of that, now!" Silver laughs a little despite himself and knuckles his eyes, willing back tears just like Jim is, if he had to guess. “Heavens above, Jimbo. You’re always chomping at the bit to leap into danger, you know that?”

“No,” Jim says, shaking his head with sudden, bone-deep certainty. "Not always. I was a coward."

"You--" Silver looks gobsmacked. " _You_ were a coward?"

"Yeah. I was." Jim scrubs over his face and says, "There was so much, so much I wanted to say. But I just couldn't. Like, that I--I look for you, in crowds. On the street. Whenever I spot a hat that looks like yours. Even though I know you can't be there. That I... want you. Like nothing else."

Silver looks at him with watery eyes and says, "I look for you, too. I knew you couldn't be there because I never bucked up enough to tell you where I was, but still. I looked."

Jim laughs wetly and confesses, "I've known. I've known you were on Secu since November."

Silver looks so proud of him, tears spilling now and wiped away roughly by the back of his hand. "Well, what took you so long?”

"I wasn't sure I was welcome," Jim tells him honestly.

" _Jimbo--_ "

"No," Jim interjects, not even certain about what he's denying. "I couldn't be sure that you didn't have a good reason for keeping this place secret."

Silver chokes on another laugh and says, "I didn't. I was just frightened. Frightened of what I feel for you, lad."

All of the anger has drained out of Jim by now, so he says, “It’s scary, falling for the wrong guy.”

Silver gives an enormous sigh of agreement, sounding incredibly drained. Then he looks at Jim with tired eyes and asks him candidly, “You really think I could make you happy?"

He can only tell him the truth: “You already do.”

Jim watches all breath leave Silver in a whoosh and he settles all the way back in his chair, looking like someone just told him that Flint had a second treasure trove all along. Shocked. Agonized. Hopeful.

Jim takes a few faltering steps forward, until he’s standing right in front of the love of his life. It still leaves him only about a head taller than Silver, who has to tip his head back to meet Jim’s eyes. Jim cups Silver’s face gently, thumb skating over the crease of his cheek, and leans down slowly. So slowly that he can watch Silver’s eyelids droop as their breath mingles, and Silver has to tilt his head to the side to get his lips anywhere close to Jim’s. His nose brushes Jim's cheek before anything else, but Jim adores that, too. Jim's eyes slip shut on the sight of Silver leaning upward to close that last inch, full of intent. And then they are suddenly, finally kissing. Jim basks in all of it: the broad sweep of Silver’s lower lip, the shared air, the sheer proximity to this man. And it's starlight and a thrill ride through the Etherium all over again, endless motion and trying to cling to the high.

Jim angles his head downward to get as much of it as he can, folding his arms around Silver’s neck. Silver seems to have the same idea because the kisses goes on and on, chaste and warm and unbelievable. Silver’s cybernetic hand rests lightly against Jim’s back, as if to keep him right where he is. They stay like that, caught up in each other and letting their lips connect with soft sounds, until Jim needs the breath that Silver keeps stealing. He pulls his mouth away and runs the tip of his nose along the ridges of Silver's own.

Silver returns the gesture, and then pulls back further so that he can stare at Jim from under heavy lids and say lowly, "Look at you."

The wonder in his voice makes Jim fucking ache, so he covers it by answering, "Can't. Too busy looking at you."

The best part of having a witty comeback like that is the fact that it’s true. He can’t help raking his eyes over Silver: his tender expression, the hungry set of his mouth. The hard shine of his belt buckle, the way his skin hasn’t changed color at all under this planet’s constant sun.

He looks so good, Jim just has to have another taste. He leans down again and tips his head just so--and they’re kissing, quicker now, in fierce little exchanges that make them both breathe hard. Jim leans more of his weight onto his hands on Silver’s shoulders, kneading them a little. Silver must enjoy that because the next thing Jim knows, they’re kissing with tongue and the cybernetic hand on his back is reeling him in, the other one grabbing hold of his waist. Silver’s tongue does wild, cunning things that Jim’s brain can’t quite comprehend, but that his body _loves._ He melts against Silver, lets him suck on Jim’s tongue and rough up his lower lip in a way that leaves Jim on shaky legs.

For all that it’s taken half a decade and untold hand-wringing to get here, the next step is easy. All Jim has to do is sit down.

He perches lightly on Silver’s knee, uncertain of his welcome, but then Silver is hauling him closer and using both hands to do it. Jim rests his weight fully on Silver’s thigh and twists so that they’re chest to chest, with Jim bowed over the slope of Silver’s stomach. He ducks into the folds of Silver’s neck where the skin is appealingly soft and just--inhales. God, how had he forgotten Silver's cologne?

Their breathing matches and Jim can really feel it like this, borne upward and downward again by the movement of Silver’s chest. Jim is breathing slower and heavier, now, warm all over, completely out of his depth and loving it.

The room is quiet as the circular pad of Silver’s cybernetic thumb draws circles over the bare strip of skin on Jim’s waist, where his shirt has bunched up. Jim twists back around to slot his fingers into the horizontal vents of Silver's arm, and it releases a hiss of steam, billowing against his fingertips.

Jim summons his voice and angles himself back toward Silver, still perched precariously on one thigh as he asks, “Is this… is this okay?”

Silver smiles, real and wide enough to make his forehead wrinkle. “Well, isn't that downright adorable. Jim Hawkins, askin’ me something so nicely.”

Jim scowls at him, hating to be teased for asking a very reasonable question. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Jimbo.” So Jim scowls at the floor instead. He can’t be expected to be perfectly mature here, between the stress of two sleepless days and trying to ignore the fact that Silver probably knows he’s hard. There’s a touch as light as lunar vapor against Jim’s cheek, turning him to look Silver in the eye again. “ _Okay_ doesn’t even make the cut. This is something… something I could never ask for.”

“But you can,” Jim tells him. “You can ask for it.”

At that, Silver leans in close again, breath ghosting over Jim’s lips when he rumbles, “May I?” Jim doesn’t even bother verbalizing how bad he wants it; he just brings their mouths together and gets lost in it all over again. The hot press of lips, the faint lingering taste of croissants, the cottony feel of Silver’s bandana under his fingers. Their tongues moving slickly against each other--profound, in and of itself. Silver’s robotic fingers span the entire width of Jim’s shoulders, keeping him close as the minutes melt together.

This time, when Jim pulls away, there’s no battling back the flush in his cheeks. With the room temp back to normal, the kitchen is getting incredibly warm. The heat and having a full belly must have gotten to Morph because he’s snoozing in the rafters now, atop a copper pot, chirruping a little in his sleep.

It would be rude to wake him. And Jim… Jim has a feeling things are about to get loud. So he eyes the door to Silver’s bedroom speculatively and says, "Please tell me you've got more than a hammock back there."

Silver does, in fact, have more than a hammock back there. The bedroom is tiny, but cozy. Silver's big bed spans the whole opposite wall, and the dresser takes up most of the rest of the floor space. There's a round window above the bed that overlooks the shore, less than half a mile away. The close-quartered walls are covered with star maps and one very suggestive pin-up of a Zorellian burlesque dancer.

"This is," Jim swallows, trying not seem nervous, "new territory for me."

"Oh ho," Silver crows. "What was the wait for, then? Ya can't tell me you didn't get offers, Jimbo."

"I mean, I did, but I just didn't..." Jim doesn’t know how to finish his sentence.

"Ah, so yer a romantic. Holding out for that perfect, magical moment with the right lass and all that," Silver says, looking satisfied with his own assessment.

Jim hates to shatter this good tempo they've got going, but--"I was waiting for an emotional connection. For the right person. I was waiting for--"

_You._

_It's always going to be you._

They both hear it, louder than if it had been said aloud. Jim rubs his own shoulder, feeling uncertain. Is it wrong for Jim to wish for something to spontaneously explode so that things will be simple between them again? That always seemed to work on the _Legacy._

Jim can’t spare another moment for the thought as he's abruptly crowded up against the room’s one spare stretch of wall. There is something decidedly predatory about the way Silver cages him in until their chests are all but touching. Like a Candarian zapwing overtaking its prey, Jim thinks dizzily.

“Is this all for me, then?” Silver asks, his voice all faux-curiosity as he looms over Jim and his cybernetic hand palms Jim’s dick through his pants.

“Fuck,” Jim chokes out.

Silver gives him a little squeeze and Jim’s head tips back, gently hitting the wall, his fingers scrabbling madly over the smooth bricks. His mouth opens on noises, low and disbelieving, as Silver’s thumb starts playing with the head of his cock and the man himself comes closer, towering over Jim with a dark look in his eye that Jim would call menacing if he didn’t have a basis for comparison.

The cushiony discs of his fingertips press and retreat as they stare at each other, Jim’s noises getting increasingly loud and ridiculous-sounding. Jim wants to feel them all over, even though he knows he’ll probably look like he was attacked by an octopus when it’s over, with round little bruises everywhere. Silver presses closer, his stomach pressing in and the blunt shape of Silver’s erection wedged against Jim’s hip. Jim takes a shuddering gasp at the first touch of it. “You feel that?” Silver growls.

“Y-yeah,” Jim answers with what bare breath he still has.

And before he even knows it, they’re kissing again, sloppy and needy and hot. Silver grabs his ass and it makes his whole body light up. That’s when Jim’s tongue snags on the gap between Silver’s front teeth, just enough to cause real discomfort, Jim rears back, poking out his tongue to check for damage. “Sorry, Jimbo,” Silver says ruefully, but with something of a chuckle in his voice. “Not all of us can have teeth as perfect as yours.”

"Don't worry about it, man. I had gap teeth just like that when I was little." Silver sees the jab for what it is and takes a swipe at him, but Jim's taken a combat course or three, so he ducks out of the way by instinct. Silver’s expecting it, though, and hip-checks him hard enough to send him sprawling over the bed. Which means that he’s surrounded by Silver’s plain white sheets, the warm, sleepy, cologne-like smell of them wafting up around him as Silver stands over him. Surveying him while that one red eye glows like an ember. For once in his life, Jim decides to be helpful. He yanks his shirt over his head and hurls it into the corner all without bothering to sit up, cool sheets feeling like heaven against his skin.

The bed dips as Silver rests a knee on the edge of the bed, reaching forward to skim his flesh-and-blood hand over Jim’s chest. Silver’s fingers catch on his nipple and it makes Jim gasp, “Ah!”

Silver’s eyes are half-lidded now, and his voice comes low and heavy: “Sensitive, are they?” And then he’s working them over, circling around them lightly, flicking them, tweaking them as Jim arches and whines.

The darkness banked in Silver’s eyes should be distressing, but it just makes Jim’s dick harder, his heart beat faster.

“What do ya want, Jimbo? What does that heaving, reckless heart of yours desire?” And Jim--Jim wants _everything._ He wants to get fucked on the kitchen table, he wants to make out in the skiff, he wants to make Silver come in his pants on the beach.

In answer, Jim starts tugging the bottom of Silver’s shirt up. Silver does the rest of the work for him, hauling it over his head and tossing it right on top of Jim’s. It’s… educational. Silver's chest hair is the same shade of brown as the hair peeking out from under his bandanna. Jim can see for himself now that the mechanics of his artificial arm reach all the way up to the edge of his neck, looking like plated armor. It's nothing like this year's sleek new models, but it suits Silver well. His prosthetic is such a natural extension of him, it's easy to forget that there's a flamethrower in there sometimes. And at least seven different kinds of knives, as far as Jim has seen.

Exhausted from travel, exam-stress, anticipation, and five fucking years of waiting, Jim allows every last stitch of clothing to be unzipped, slipped down, and peeled off of him without complaint. When Jim’s socks hit the floor with a soft plop, Silver looks down at him, naked and spread out on the sheets. Dust motes swirl through the stream of sunlight between them as Silver murmurs, "By the stars..."

Jim knows the feeling. It’s something else, laying here and looking up at Silver. Bare-chested, towering over him, an enormous bulge tenting the front of his pants, his arm shining like his namesake. It’s like something out of a dream, except in Jim’s dreams they would already be fucking by now. So he hooks his foot around Silver’s knee and tugs him one step closer to the bed.

Silver shakes his head, as if to clear it from fog, and says, “I believe I asked you a question, Jimbo.”

“I want… I want to feel you. Against me.”

Silver chuckles in agreement, saying, “That sounds mighty fine to me.” He grabs a telling bottle of lotion from the top of the dresser and squeezes out a little into his cupped palm, and the bed dips under his knee as he rests half of his weight on the mattress. Then--fiery fucking solar flares--he wraps his hand around Jim’s dick, slathering it in oil. Jim had previously speculated that Silver's probably got a few notches in his bedpost--how could he not, with the sheer charisma that rolls off of him--and the expert way Silver draws a fingertip right under his frenulum kind of confirms it. This is what Jim thinks about, through the moaning and twitching and heat rising up all over him.

Silver is a tease. Jim really should have been able to guess that, but he’s as stunned by it as he is frustrated. Silver gives him few lazy tugs and plays with the slit, and it makes Jim curse because he knows Silver has no intention of getting him off like this. Fucking Flint. Fucking treasure-loving, bear hug-giving, goddamn two-faced _pirates--_

Silver gives him a knowing smile as his hand draws away and stands, his hands going straight to his belt. He shucks his pants and underwear and his one boot without fanfare, without any of the flair he’d shown for teasing Jim just a moment ago, but Jim still props himself up on his elbows to watch, entranced.

Jim tries to take it all in: Silver’s prosthetic starting just above the knee, big brown thigh transitioning abruptly into warm metal and exposed machinery. Silver’s cock jutting out, so fucking big. The fact that Silver is circumcised, the scar line low and loose, the skin ridged and red. His cock is practically ribbed with veins and folds of skin that pull taut before the base of it disappears into a tangle of dark curls. Jim doesn’t have nearly as good a view of it when Silver crawls on top of him, the bed rocking and squealing terribly as he places his knees on either side of Jim’s.

Jim makes to pull Silver down on top of him completely, to really _feel_ him, but Silver says, "Hold on, pup." Silver’s arm quickly reconfigures into a tripod to help him prop himself up just an inch over Jim, and Jim loves him, loves how even the clockwork of him is utterly unpredictable. Now that there’s no threat of crushing Jim, Silver lowers himself, that barrel chest touching Jim before anything else. But then there’s the heat rolling of him, the rough press of his chest hair, his thighs brushing against Jim’s. All of that weight bearing down on him. Jim’s dick is dripping from it, even before Silver wraps a slick hand around them both and rubs them together, oily and intense and completely hypnotizing. The groans are immediate, startling in the quiet--Jim’s rasping pant sounding high alongside Silver’s marrow-deep rumbling.

Silver’s hand is big enough to circle them both completely, and he loosens the ring of his fingers before he starts moving against Jim in slow, steady thrusts. His face bobs closer and farther away as he moves, the bed still complaining with it. Jim couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting right back up even if he wanted to. It feels good--the top-of-the-lungs moaning kind of good--to be doing this with Silver.

There’s something truly free in it. The knowledge of the absolute solitude of this place, the license to have sex as loud as they want. Really, it’s a good thing Morph is such a heavy sleeper.

It’s a complicated form of jerking off, really, but it’s just right. Just hot enough, intense enough, close enough. Silver’s dick nudging up against his again and again, hot as a brand.

Soon, Silver is tightening his hold on them both, keeping them still as he rubs them up and down between circle of his thumb and forefinger, making an egregious oily noise as his hand works. But fuck, it’s even better this way because it keeps Silver bearing down on him just like that, and it doesn’t give Jim a single second of relief as the heat builds and builds, his breath coming short as his grabs at Silver’s back for some kind of handhold. Silver makes a low sound and tightens his fingers just a little more, and Jim thrashes with it, his new piercing getting crushed against the bed in the process, leaving him hissing at the way it burns. The next thing he knows, Silver is leaning down to place a big, soft kiss right next to his ear--as if he wants to make it better, but he doesn’t want to risk infecting it. In a flash, it occurs to Jim that Silver may be tempted to stop and check on his ear just to be safe.

“Don’t--” Jim breathes. “Don’t stop!”

“All the stars’ll burn themselves out first,” Silver growls, moving as steadily as ever. And Jim--Jim can’t stop making noises. Noises that sound panicky, but _feel_ like unadorned honesty, like truth embodied.

It’s alright because Silver is there, too. Pretense stripped away, putting all of himself into it--clicking and clanking and gusting warm breath over Jim. Overtaxed. As overwhelmed as he is overwhelming.

Suddenly it’s pouring out of Jim’s mouth, “God, I love you so much--” Silver kisses him hard. Open-mouthed, gasping, Jim gives as good as he gets. One hand fisted in the sheets, tongue working, the heat of it blending with the drag of Jim’s head against Silver’s as something electric coils in his stomach. Jim digs his fingers into the dark hair peeking out from under Silver’s bandana and holds on for dear life.

This-- _this_ is why they call it making love.

And isn’t this what he had always loved about pulling stunts on his solar surfer--letting the power of the natural world take hold of him, giving the entirety of his body and mind over to something greater than himself?

Silver seems keen on it, too. “Go on, Jimbo. I want you to. Let me watch, let me see what it looks like when you come--”

As if by command, Jim throws his head back, in the throes of it as the heat peaks and his mouth opens on one last, loud moan.

It's absolute freefall. Staring at the ceiling without seeing it, his fingers clenching reflexively in Silver’s hair as everything suddenly gets much slicker. It’s a relief and a half, feeling himself tense up so that he can finally, fully relax against the bed when the tension releases, when there’s simply nothing left in him to expend.

Silver groans like he’s been mortally wounded, but Jim can feel the actual vibrations of it in his chest as a second rush warmth gushes over his stomach. Within moments, Silver is easing down onto the bed just to the right of Jim. His arm transforms mid-fall, configuring into his usual cybernetic hand before it lays over Jim’s chest.

Still, Silver doesn’t stop touching him. Jim sighs at the way the pads of those fingers drag against his skin, soft but with an inimitable friction. The disc of Silver’s thumb runs back and forth over the spot where Jim’s exhaustion used to show, the crease of stress and exhaustion under his eye.

There is nothing in the world but that touch and the hum of the generator. The coming and going of waves.

Jim turns his head and smudges a wet kiss at the round edge of Silver’s cybernetic ear. He leaves his mouth right there, up against the spot where warm skin meets cool hardware.

He realizes, all at once, that the instant he gets home Captain Amelia is going to read this all over his face. But that’s _okay,_ that’s more than okay because this is fucking worth it and if Jim had to take an educated guess, it always will be.

"You know," Jim says into Silver’s temple, "I used to read about Treasure Planet in this book of legends and hidden treasures when I was a kid."

"Oh?" Silver answers, voice muffled by the sheets.

"Yeah. It was a big book. At least a hundred stories in there." Silver chuckles deeply, catching his train of thought even before Jim continues, “I mean, if Flint’s trove was real… who’s to say one of the other ones isn’t?” Silver seems to like the idea, but he doesn’t love it, so Jim begins, "Or..."

"Or?" Silver prompts again, turning his face out of the sheets to look over at Jim, something warm and amused in his eyes.

"You said you rescued Morph off of Proteus 1."

"Aye, I did."

"What did you rescue him from?"

"Poachers. Little morphs like him are a delicacy for the locals, if they’ve got the money to spare."

"Bet whoever rescued the rest of them could make a fortune finding them good homes or founding a sanctuary for them on another planet. They're not like your average zoo animal--they'd thrive off of meeting tourists and picking their own companions."

Silver brightens and booms, "Well, aren't you an enterprising young pup! I bet you're right. Somebody'd better do it before someone else gets the idea."

"I dunno. It kind of sounds like a two-person job."

“That it does, Jimbo.”

Jim shifts against the sheets and admits, “I think… I think my life is kind of a two-person job.” He trails his fingers over the curve of Silver’s spine, mulling it over. “Not that I haven’t been able to do it on my own. It’s just that it wasn’t as fun without you."

Silver’s eyes may or may not be shining with tears again, but Jim is completely dry-eyed, ready to look at what’s between them soberly, ready to hear things he doesn’t want to hear. But he doesn’t have to steel himself for that because Silver hauls him close, twisting them onto their sides so that he can wrap both of his arms around Jim, knotting them together.

“Why, you tall tale-telling, rascally rapscallion--”

Which, to Jim, sounds as a hell of a lot like, _Me too._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from the poem “Give Me Back My Rags” by Popa. Many thanks to Saucery, who turned me onto the poetry of Popa and whose weird-ass pairings should serve as inspiration to us all. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for all the comma splices and things in the letters, but every time I went to fix them, I was like, "But this is exactly the kind of grammatical error they would make..." You see my dilemma. So I opted for authenticity over perfectionism, which is contrary to my very being.
> 
> In case you were curious, most of the native inhabitants of the Zynthurion system have a severe gluten allergy, so Silver couldn't buy a croissant in the marketplace whenever he went to pick up his mail. Couldn't shoehorn that into the dialogue, so here we are. 
> 
> If by some quirk of fate you want to reread this fic, I highly recommend listening to late ‘90s and early 2000s soft rock to get you into just the right headspace. I’m talking about Lifehouse’s “Hanging on a Moment” levels of cheesy, here. 
> 
> I owe my motivation for writing this to my superhuman beta (EarlGreyTonight on ao3), my _other_ superhuman beta (sourboy on ao3), my inspiration (colonel_bastard on tumblr and a03), and my hero (wuffen on tumblr and ao3). In particular, I would like to thank colonel_bastard for writing "Only Fools Rush In," which is what initially reignited my interest in this pairing and basically doomed me to this path. And to wuffen: I would like to thank you for being a badass motherfucker because you are always putting your kinks, your troubles, and your beautifully drawn dicks out there into the ether and that takes real guts and I have always, always admired that as one of your silent followers. Ya'll are some good people. You’ve kept this fandom alive, and I know it hasn't always been easy and it hasn't always been rewarding. The first 12,694 words were for me. But the last three hundred were for all of you.
> 
> I would also like to thank my sisters--which is ironic because they are in this fandom but I made them promise not to read this because if I thought for a second that they were going to read my porn, there is no way in hell I’d have the guts to post it. Ain’t I a stinker? ;D
> 
> THANKS FOR NOT READING THIS, SISTERS. 
> 
> And finally, a note to the fandom: please, fandom! Stay alive, make stuff, be as passionate about this pairing as you were when it first clicked for you--LET ME LOVE YOU.


End file.
